Krishna
by Obsessive Compulsive Queens
Summary: Catalyst: a substance that enables a chemical reaction to proceed at a usually faster rate or under different conditions as at a lower temperature than otherwise possible. Slight AU. House/Wilson Chase/MaleOC Cameron/FemaleOC Cuddy/MaleOC


A/N: The story is set post-Foreman resignation but pre-Foreman-departure. After that, don't hold your breath for any canon. The pairings will be House/Wilson, Chase/Male OC, (and to a lesser degree) Cameron/Female OC and Cuddy/Male OC. There will be much plot, and much sexual tension.

Disclaimer: House, M.D. is the property of David Shore, Bryan Singer, and FOX – our ventures are harmless. To quote the Puck: "If we shadows have offended/Think but this and all is mended/That you have but slumbered here/While these visions did appear./And this weak and idle theme,/No more yielding but a dream./Gentles, do not reprehend,/If you pardon, we shall mend./And as I am an honest Puck/If we have unearn'd luck,/Now to scape the serpent's tongue,/We will make amends 'ere long./Else the Puck a liar call/So good night, unto you all./Give me your hands, if we be friends,/And Robin shall restore amends."

xxx

Kartik Krishnamma dropped his jacket unceremoniously over the back of the comfortable office chair before falling into that same chair himself and propping his feet, encased in battered Doc Martens, atop the polished wood. The same long fingers which had so often landed him in trouble for snatching sweets as a child nimbly caught and tossed a large red and gray tennis ball. Even as he did so, however, his expression perfectly bland and innocuous, his dark eyes were riveted on a stack of files teetering precariously at one corner of the desk.

Within moments he surrendered the pretense entirely, discarding the ball in favor of attacking the pile in search of whatever privileged information – information that would not customarily be within his reach – one might uncover within the private office of Dr. Gregory House, M.D.

House himself was in no position to object to the violation – God knew where the man was. A quick, shameless rummage through the drawers (some of which were locked, but what self-respecting college student graduated without learning how to pick a few locks when necessary?) to procure a much needed red marking pen.

Such rare and fascinating details as he might stumble across were welcome – but not the poor analysis and shoddy interpretations he had come to expect from doctors grown lax in their authority.

Grinning broadly at an article detailing diagnosis and treatment of cerebral malaria (as flawed as it was), he set to work; barely flickering as he reflexively capitalized the beginning of the string "by Dr. Eric Foreman, M.D."

xxx

Foreman registered only that a seated figure was present at House's desk when he glanced into the office. It was not until he passed through the doors, however, that he found the occupant therein not to be the familiar maverick.

An Indian male of no more than thirty was arranged at House's desk with an ease and languor the man himself had rarely shown. Though he slouched, his height and strength of frame were obvious, as was the intelligence and capability evident in his keen eyes. It was a maturity of expression terribly at odds with the frayed jeans and rumpled Oxford.

The angular lines of his features were lean and potentially feral. And yet while some distant analytical portion of Foreman's cerebrum noted these qualities, the more immediate of his higher functions were occupied.

"Patients are to remain in the waiting room. If you're here for Dr. House, you'll need to call and schedule an appointment."

The man glanced upward, a red pen caught between straight teeth, which seemed inhumanly white against the dark of his skin. Rather than the bluster of a pestering patient, he seemed merely surprised at the intrusion.

"Dr. House called me here – it just seemed that I might as well make myself useful while waiting."

Then, for the first time, Foreman really saw the papers scattered over the broad surface, all drowning in red annotations. Mostly case files – but to one side he recognized his own name at the heading of the recent article he had submitted for review. His name, neatly printed, which was a miniscule island of untainted white amid the sprawling sea of carmine.

"May I ask what exactly gave you the authority to mark up my article?" It was difficult to keep the hostility from his voice – the paper had taken months of obsessive research when sleep would have been far more welcome.

A slight pause, and then the young man carefully added a last, brisk notation in red before setting aside his current occupation. Eyes which were warm in color but cutting in perception finally met his own.

"First, may I say what a pleasure it is to meet you?" he drawled. "Dr… Foreman, is it? Call me Kartik. Now, you obviously put a great deal of time and energy into this – which is why it's such a terrible shame that it's not fit to print. It won't land within a mile of any reputable journal as it is. As if the emaciated syntax and myriad grammatical mishaps were not sufficient to doom it, your faulty analysis would certainly suffice. Obviously you are not unintelligent, but after spending such extensive rations of energy on this patient's case, how could you overlook her allergy to quinine? This information would be referenced by dozens of other doctors, and they would hardly glean from this morass that quinine remains the most common and effective component of chemotherapy in these cases. They would then act as per your procedure in a rare case in which the patient experienced anaphylactic shock after the quinine's administration. Even I know this only because you obscurely reference her attack, but you do not do so in a manner that links it effectually to the change in her treatment, and so the whole of your thesis is compromised. Besides, corticosteroids should hardly have been your first alternative. "

Finally resting from his exposition, Kartik leaned back once more and relaxed as the chilly clinical manner fled. He was merely a young man in frayed jeans again, albeit one with an expression slightly too knowing for comfort.

"To answer your question, my authority is derived from the nice shiny diploma in a box somewhere that recognizes my doctorate from Johns Hopkins. So while I'd really prefer "Kartik," you're free to address me as Dr. Krishnamma if it suits you."

There are times in which a man experiences a combination of outrage and shock so profound that he is temporarily robbed of coherent response. Foreman, caught in such a paralyzing state, was just coming to the conclusion that a strong punch to the jaw would be the best response of all when House himself strode in wearing the scowl characteristic of a shift served in the clinic.

Foreman he acknowledged with the curtest of nods, eyes already threatening to roll with impatience at the prospect of being prevailed upon for assistance or consultation. But when his gaze alighted upon Kartik, who had yet to remove his feet from the desk, his brows shot upward and his mouth quirked. A quirk, not a true smile, but to catch an expression from House truly lacking in mockery or barbs was more striking than such a commonplace expression.

"Foreman," he barked, self-satisfaction radiating from every harsh line of his crooked frame. "Meet your replacement."

xxx

Many thanks to all readers and reviewers! The next chapter will offer needed explanations, as well as featuring mainly on dear Wilson. This is not to be a Gary-Sue, as they say – House is still our star.


End file.
